


Pâro (n.)

by peterpan_in_neverland



Series: have you ever felt things beyond the human language? [6]
Category: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, blame all my friends, im so sorry to my dear readers, okay legit tags now, truly unhinged, unhinged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26001556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: “Happy?”“More than I’ve ever been,” she says.“Being rude to the guy you want to be your fake boyfriend isn’t the best choice in the world, David.”“You’ll say yes no matter what I say to you,” she says, and her words shoot through him, cutting him knives.She’s right. She could say almost anything, and his answer wouldn’t be no. Because this is Devi. Devi, who makes him laugh. Devi, who makes him feel lighter than air. Devi, who sees him and knows him and hears him better than anyone else, who makes him forget about his problems and makes everything in the world feel understandable and simple and good.He sighs, and hopes it sounds more annoyed than wistful. “When’s the party?”--OR; Devi asks Ben to fake being her boyfriend for a party, and everything goes wrong
Relationships: Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar
Series: have you ever felt things beyond the human language? [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778254
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	Pâro (n.)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetichearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetichearts/gifts).



> Shoutout to Bhargavi, Leila, Maggie, and Cori for encouraging me to post this mess. Please picture Gregory as one of those guys that looks like a wacky arm wavy inflatable tube man. Thank you and goodbye.

Ben is fresh out of the shower, his sweatpants sticking to his skin and his hair curling at the ends, dropping water down his back and into his eyes. It’s starting to annoy him— everything annoys him lately, and he can’t really pinpoint why. He thinks it is probably just the deep, bone crushing stress of pre-law studies at Princeton and the constant ambivalence his parents feel towards him combining together to create a nagging annoyance with everything in his life. 

With the exception, of course, being Devi. 

He has a special text tone set for her, the part of The Beatles’ _Blackbird_ where a bird chirps along with the music (Devi picks on him for constantly having his ringer on, asking, _“what are you, forty-five?”_ but he always lets it go), and when he hears it playing from his nightstand, the lingering feelings of irritation evaporate off of his skin like water in the sunlight. 

_can i tell you something if you promise not to be a judgy old man about it?_ The part of him that is always, perpetually, continuously in what Carson (an altogether too peppy girl in his elective journalism class) calls “lawyer mode” is instantly worried that she has committed a crime. But, the bigger part of him, the part that is Devi’s friend, thinks something different, entirely.

He wants to say, _Yes, of course, tell me everything and anything and nothing. Tell me your secrets and your stories and your sufferings. Your jokes and jabs and jests and please, please, just tell me everything about you, every flower you’ve ever picked and every book you’ve ever read and every moment you’ve locked away in your mind, to keep and remember and cherish forever. Tell me how you have become you, the person you are and were destined to become._

But instead, he says, _Yeah, as long as it’s about me being smarter than you._ because that option is multitudes safer. 

_GOD you’re such a dick, nevermind, forget it gross_ is her reply, and it births and raises a sick, regretful feeling in his stomach

_No, I’m sorry, David. Just trying to make the whole talk-talk vibe less intense_ . A read receipt shows up, but a notice that she’s typing doesn’t, and he grimaces. _You can tell me anything, Devi. I swear on my life and on my cat. I promise I won’t be weird._

She starts typing, then stops, then starts again. She types for what feels like lifetimes, and his heart feels lighter when her message finally comes through. 

_okay so freaking gregory from my art history club is throwing this stupid christmas party thing and yeah i kind of can’t stand these people but im going because there’s gonna be a gift giving situation and i like getting gifts from trust fund kids but the issue is that they all think i have a boyfriend_

The text ends there. And Ben knows exactly where she is going. 

_So, you’re asking me to be your fake boyfriend because you want rich kid presents?_

_shut up_ she says, then, _i’m calling you. don’t be naked_

_Why would it matter if I’m naked?_ he texts _,_ but then she FaceTimes him, and it makes sense. She is a searcher, she wants to see his face, to tell if he thinks this is weird or illogical or creepy, and honestly, he can’t blame her. It’s a strange thing to ask for, for someone to pretend to date you, no matter _how_ cool that Netflix movie with the letters that Devi had made him watch makes it seem.

He accepts the request, and Devi’s face loads onto his screen. She is sitting at her desk, scribbling something on her notebook, and the desk light is throwing a glow over her face that highlights her cheekbones and throws everything but her face and wisps of curly hair into shadows. She looks unfairly good, her hair in a pile on top of her head and a pair of wire framed glasses sitting on the end of her nose. 

“You look like a librarian,” he tells her, and she looks back at the screen, and scowls. 

“And you look like a desperate virgin, _why_ are you shirtless?” she asks, pushing her glasses up, the corners of her mouth turned down. 

“I got out of the shower, like, ten minutes ago, give me a second.” He tosses his phone on his bed before she can see the flush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks like roses blooming. He pulls on the worn out Clippers shirt that Patty had gotten him from the court side game in tenth grade, and picks his phone back up. “Happy?” 

“More than I’ve ever been,” she says. 

“Being rude to the guy you want to be your fake boyfriend isn’t the _best_ choice in the world, David.” 

“You’ll say yes no matter _what_ I say to you,” she says, and her words shoot through him, cutting him knives. 

She’s right. She could say almost anything, and his answer wouldn’t be no. Because this is Devi. Devi, who makes him laugh. Devi, who makes him feel lighter than air. Devi, who sees him and knows him and hears him better than anyone else, who makes him forget about his problems and makes everything in the world feel understandable and simple and good. 

He sighs, and hopes it sounds more annoyed than wistful. “When’s the party?” 

“Friday.” 

“I’ll be there,” he says, then crinkles his eyebrows, “wait, shouldn’t we figure out the details?” 

“Duh,” she says. She is writing in her notebook again. Her handwriting is messy, with blocky capital letters and scribbled notes in the margins, doodles and scribbles occupying the empty spaces. Ben thinks it is a perfect representation of her. “Meet me at my place tomorrow, at… four. I’ll text you.” 

“Okay,” he agrees, because he will always agree, because if she needs something, he’s there, “you really didn’t have to call me for this, then.” 

She looks back to the camera, blinking fast, and setting down her pencil. She lays her arms flat on the desk, one over the other, and says, “I wanted to see your face.” 

Joy and peace and love love love explode in his stomach. He loves her. It is something that he knows with certainty and that happened with a specific degree of inevitability and it is something special that he is wholly unsure of how to describe. He knows that he wants to hold onto it, collect it in vases to sit on sunlit shelves. He wants to love Devi forever, in whatever way he can. In whatever way she’ll let him.

He sobers, comes back to reality, and quips, “I always knew you were captivated by my good looks.” 

“You _wish_ , Gross.” 

* * *

Devi lives in a short, pretty brick apartment building fifteen minutes away from campus. Ben is kind of surprised that she doesn’t live in a dorm— she seems exactly like the type of person to want an on campus, dorm life college experience. But, then again, there are sides of Devi that he does not know, despite knowing her for the entirety of her life. He tries not to dwell on it, the unknowables, but every so often, Devi will look at him and he will feel like he barely even knows her at all.

He’s never been in her apartment— every time they've spent afternoons together, they’ve either strolled through campus or stayed in his apartment— and, although he should have been expecting it, the interior shocks him anyway. 

Her living room and kitchen walls are a bright pink colour, something reminiscent of coral reefs, or the cocktail dress that his mom wore once to meet Salma Hayek and then never again. She has prints and tapestries and polaroids hanging on her walls, and there are an abundance of small, leafy potted plants and succulents on the coffee table and on shelves. 

A shelf taking up the entirety of the wall adjacent to her front door is split, half in half, between stacks of vinyls and rows of pristine, leather bound books. He wants to walk over to it, and shut the world out, spend the rest of his life with Devi on her living room floor, sorting through bands and singers and authors. Discovering small pieces of her in between the pages and in the grooves of the vinyls.

“Um, hello to you, too, Benjamin,” Devi says, pulling him from his sudden wonder. She has her hair down— it’s thick and wavy and brushes her waist when she tosses it over her shoulder— and she’s switched out her stud nose ring for a thin gold hoop. “Welcome to my apartment, your greeting was so, _so_ kind.” 

“Sorry, the paint just kind of threw me,” he explains, and toes off his shoes, setting them on a rack by the door. “Nice book collection, by the way.” 

She narrows her eyes at him, like she is expecting a joke. “Thanks,” she finally says, finding an absence of a threat, and shutting her front door. She is wearing sweatpants that she has cutoff into shorts and a bright blue hoodie tucked into them. Ben suddenly feels absurd, in a short sleeved button down and black jeans, but pushes it aside. 

“So, what‘s your plan here?” he asks, running his palms up and down his jeans. It makes his skin feel hot and prickly, and the same part of him that likes the way gasoline smells relishes the scrape of denim against his skin. 

“I thought I made it pretty clear last night.” She walks around him, and into her kitchen, standing up on her tiptoes to pull a bag of white cheddar popcorn from a cupboard. 

“The broader parts, yeah,” he says, and holds his hand out when Devi struggles to pull the bag open. She groans, but let’s him take it. He tears it open easily, and smirks when she rolls her eyes. “But I’m assuming you’ve bragged to all these weird nerds about me?” 

“ _Barely_.” She dumps the entirety of the bag into a big, bright orange bowl, and walks with it over to her couch. Ben feels rooted to the spot, watching her move around her apartment like he isn’t even there. 

When Devi spent a week living with him in their sophomore year of high school, Ben walked on eggshells for the first two days. It was strange, having someone other than himself and Patty there— and Devi was there all the time, overnight, sleeping in the guest room and, somehow, making the entire house smell like cherries and jasmine. Ben had found some sense of normalcy, quickly, but nothing like the easy disregard Devi has for the principle of making guests feel at home. 

“What do you mean, _“barely?”_ Like I’m not a total catch.” He tries to force the awkwardness, the anxiety, out of his body, but matter can neither be created nor destroyed, and he knows that the nerves he feels on his skin move out into his words, because his voice shakes. 

“You okay?” Devi asks. When she is concerned about something or worried for someone, her lips part, like comforting words are waiting against her teeth. 

“Yeah,” he coughs, and clears his throat, trying to disguise his trepidation, “just a tickle.” 

She does not look like she believes him, but whatever else she may be thinking, she doesn’t say. “Okay,” she says, setting the bowl of popcorn on her coffee table— it’s second hand, or well loved, at the very least, because there are chips and grooves and stains in the wood— and sits down on her couch. “There’s some glasses in the cabinet above the sink if you want some water or something.” 

“I’m good.” He takes a deep breath and walks into her living room, sitting down in an armchair that doesn’t match her couch in the slightest. It makes sense, her entire apartment, with mismatched seating and pink walls and beaten-up tables. In fact, the only thing that looks new are the shelves holding up her collection of vinyls and books, and that detail creates a couple dozen more questions about them in Ben's mind. 

She takes a deep breath, the kind before long speeches, that are exacerbated in meaning by the microphone and the crowd. “This feels kinda weird, doesn’t it?” she asks him, and it makes him feel lighter. 

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, David.” 

“Having you in my _house_ ,” she says, and shrugs, a fluidity to the movement, “usually I’m the one storming your home.” 

“I wouldn’t say _storming,_ exactly.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Really? How else would you describe it?” 

“I _would_ say invading,” he starts, and rubs the back of his head, “but that just feels… wrong.” 

“Yeah, usually white people do the invading.” She looks proud, that smirk she gets when she has won an argument, the finishing blow already landed. 

Ben raises his eyebrows, and then opens his mouth to retort, but then closes it, because nothing is appropriate to say in reply. He decides to change the topic. “So, how exactly are we going to do this, Devi?” 

“I mean, it’s not as if you don’t know me well enough already, you’re clearly obsessed with me.” 

“Are you _sure?”_ he interrupts, unable to stop himself. Devi and him, him and Devi, they are not people who do things in halves. If they are doing this— and, apparently, they are— then they are going to do it correctly. “And, I’m only obsessed with you in your dreams,” he adds, not willing to let her remark go ignored.

Devi rolls her lips in, and leans forward from her casual stance relaxed against the couch cushions. “What’s my favourite food, Ben?” 

He pushes his eyebrows together. “It depends.” 

Devi hums. “Comfort food.” 

“Mac n cheese— or _sambar_ _vada,_ if you’re talking Indian food.” 

Devi nods, and a swirl of pride shoots through him. “What’s my favourite thing to do?” 

“Annoy me,” he answers, and she rolls her eyes, groaning, and throws a handful of popcorn at him. “You’re just proving my point, Devi!” 

“Answer for real, dick!” 

“Ugh,” Ben complains, brushing the popcorn off of his shirt and into the palm of his hand, “spend time with your friends, and-or watch youtube promposals.” 

“See?” she asks, then punches his shoulder. He knows it is one of her stupid friend punches, so he lets it go. “You know me, Ben. We’re gonna be fine.” 

“What if they ask us something, like, about our relationship?” It feels insane, calling it a _relationship,_ even if it isn’t for real. Even if it will never be for real. Even if he wants it to be real, more than he can remember wanting anything.

“Oh, I didn’t think of that!” she says, sarcastically, putting a hand against her forehead and falling dramatically against the couch, a gesture reminiscent of something Eleanor would do. 

“I’m not surprised, since you aren’t capable of thinking.” 

“Says the literal starfish.” 

“You just called me a star.” 

“Shut the _fuck_ up,” Devi says, laughter glowing in her eyes, and Ben smiles. 

Devi makes him feel alive. 

There is an electric charge between them when they argue like this, an energy that has never been present in his conversations with anyone else. She pushes him to work harder while still being proud of him— no matter what— at the same time, and her ability to craft the perfect sarcastically mean spirited comment will never be lost on him. 

_“Anyway,”_ she says, pointedly, “I figured we could just make some stuff up, and at the next function, I won’t bring you along and I’ll just make up some lie about how we broke up.” 

“I broke up with you, I assume,” he says, to mask the strange and unwelcome disappointment of only having one night with her. One night to dance and coordinate wardrobe and eat fancy food, together. One night to show her off and to be shown off by her in return. It feels like two billion nights too little.

“As _if,_ you’d never do better than me, Gross.” 

“Did you just… quote _Clueless_ at me?” he asks her, and she nods, smirking. “Oh, I hate you.” 

_“Clueless_ is a fantastic movie, you need to have more respect for the classics.” 

“Are we going to be able to do anything without arguing?” he asks her, mostly sarcastic, but he sees her face shift into a mask of worry, and he instantly regrets it. 

“Ben—” 

“No, it’s fine, if we argue, we’ll just argue about… coupley stuff.” He feels stupid, trying to comfort her, but then the corner of her mouth turns up, and she gives him that look. The look that only _he_ gets to see, the look that feels like an incalculable formula of amusement times affection times uncertainty, and Ben smiles. “Y’know, like how couples do.”

She wrinkles her nose. “What exactly is a couple thing to argue about?” 

He grapples at straws. “Um, taxes? Oh, and who has to take out the trash!” 

“That’s what _everyone_ argues about,” she points out, nose still wrinkled. Ben wants to kiss it. 

“Yes, _but,_ couples do it while making heart eyes at each other.” 

“Ew, God, _please,_ never say that again, like, ever.” 

“What?” he asks, a grin on his face. “Making heart eyes at each other? Because that’s what couples do, they make heart eyes at each other.” 

“You are, without a doubt, the worst man on the face of the planet,” she tells him, and takes the empty popcorn bowl to the sink, rinsing it out, “like, the genuine worst.” 

“That still leaves all the people on the international space station.” 

“There’s no way you’re any better than an astronaut,” she rebuts, and sits back down, propping her feet up on the coffee table, “they could seduce me with their knowledge about space.” 

“I have plenty of space knowledge I could seduce you with,” he points out, then pauses, a low gasp coming from his throat when he realizes what he has said. 

Devi looks uneasy, her mouth parted and eyebrows raised, but she recovers easily. “Nothing you’d do could seduce me.” 

He wants to say _wanna bet?_ but he knows that it would be crossing the line, breaking down one of the barriers carefully constructed post the breakdown that was Malibu. The lack of resolution had nearly wrecked them, had changed their dynamic, had altered something they had spent ten years carefully keeping in check, and to change the dynamic, again, would be the killing blow. 

“Whatever you say, David,” he decides to say, and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “can we actually figure out our fake relationship now?” 

“Duh,” she deadpans, and walks over to her desk, rifling through it. There’s a mountain of things on it— notecards and brightly coloured folders and an array of pens of various different brands— and he finds it almost amazing that she is capable of finding anything within the pile of clutter.

“What are you doing?” 

“Looking for index cards,” she answers, and Ben snorts, rolling his eyes. She pushes a stack of loose leaf paper wrapped in plastic to the side, and triumphantly holds up a small stack of index cards, held together with a binder clip. The one on top, he wants to say, is notes for her life drawing class, but he can’t tell past the doodles in the empty spaces.

“You’re going to make flash cards for our fake relationship?” he asks, a little incredulous. 

“Obviously,” she says. She pulls a pen at random from the stack on her desk, and kneels down in front of the coffee table. “When did we get together?” 

Ben hums, then bites his lip. “Depends.” She raises an eyebrow. “What exactly have you been telling them about me?” 

“I’ve just been using you to get out of stuff I… don’t want to go to, really.” 

_“Very_ honourable of you, David.” 

“Yeah, well, trust fund kids suck— and that includes you.” 

“This isn’t how you should talk to your boyfriend—” 

_“Fake_ boyfriend.” The clarification shoots through him like a flare cutting up the night sky. He knew what he was signing up for— even for only a night— but letting her go at the end of it is already beginning to hurt him. To make his body feel heavy, his skin too tight, his stomach churning. 

“You should get the practice in early, though, considering being nice doesn't exactly come natural to you.”

“It doesn’t exactly come naturally to you either, Ben.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Sure, but I’m more capable of it than you.” 

She sets her jaws, eyes narrowed, that look she gets only when he challenges her. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see, then.” 

* * *

The party, for lack of any better terms, sucks, and it’s ridiculously extravagant for something that is essentially a college club meeting.

It’s stuffy, filled with exactly the kind of people his father would pack into banquet halls every holiday season, and he hates it. They’re dressed in impeccable suits, sipping from flutes of champagne and grabbing crab cakes from silver trays.

“Where the fuck did these people get the budget for this?” Ben asks, when him and Devi walk in— she’s tucked herself into his side, holding onto his forearm like it is a lifeline— and he scans the space, taking in the people milling about. 

“The club president— stupid fucking Gregory, ugh— his dad is some high class art world dealer asshole, and he funds these,” Devi tells him, separating from him long enough to hand her coat off to a tired looking attendent. 

“What are we even gonna _do_ here? No offense, but this really isn’t your scene.” 

“What makes you think it’s not my scene, Ben?” she asks, true sarcasm filling her voice and coating the syllables, “I’m the epitome of refined society.”

“Your _first_ purchase after you got to college was a seven dollar package of gum,” he points out, and she scowls at him, sticking her tongue out. 

“It was completely worth it and I stand by my purchase.” 

“It was _cheeseburger_ flavoured, Devi,” he protests, grimacing, “I know you have horrible taste, but, just… really?” 

She wrinkles her eyebrows, and loops her arm through his. “I never said it was _good,_ I just said it was worth it.” 

“But saying it was worth it _implies_ that it was good,” he argues. She looks up at him— it isn’t much, really, she’s wearing flats and he’s only got two inches on her, but it’s enough to make his heart jump— and rolls her eyes.

“It means that it was worth the seven dollars.” 

_“How?”_ he asks, genuinely bewildered. He had smelled the gum, and it had been enough to make him gag. 

“Well, first of all, I can say that I’ve both bought _and_ tried cheeseburger flavoured gum, and second of all, watching you react to the smell of it was really, _really_ worth it.” 

“Rude.” 

“Oh, please, I’m a goddamn del— oh, fuck, Gregory approaching,” she taps his arm frantically, jerking her head in his direction, “keep it vague, and _don’t_ mention your parents.” 

“What? Why can’t I— _ow,_ Devi, what the hell?” She had elbowed him with unbelievable discreteness, but he manages to mask his reaction with uncharacteristic ease before Gregory can notice. 

“Devi! Hello, darling,” Gregory says, and Devi attempts to get away with just a wave, but he pulls her in for a tight hug. Ben feels a wave of jealousy wash over him before he smooths it down, attempts to smother it, like how a blanket smothers a flame. There’s no reason for jealousy, not really, considering their relationship is fake.

“Hey, Gregory,” Devi says, and manages to pull herself from Gregory’s embrace. She falls back in line with Ben, and, oh, Gregory noticing him is something different. 

Gregory, clearly, has feelings for Devi. 

Ben can't blame him, really. Devi is smart and pretty and altogether wonderful, but, right here, right now, she is his to hold tight and his to look at like that. He can’t say the look on Gregory’s face doesn’t frighten him, though, considering it is exactly the same way that Paxton looked at him through the entirety of junior year. 

“Gregory, this is Ben,” Devi says, and he drops his gaze back to hers, turning away from the venom in Gregory’s face. She’s smiling at him, and that’s all Ben really needs. “My boyfriend.” 

“The elusive boyfriend, finally gracing us with his presence,” Gregory says, his face relaxing. It is robotic. 

“Nice to meet you, Gregory,” Ben says, employing his learned skill of forced gentility, and stretching his arm out to shake Gregory’s hand. 

Gregory looks at his hand for a beat longer than he should before he takes it, shaking it once, then dropping it. He turns back to Devi, and says, “Deborah was wondering where you were earlier, care to come along and say hello?” 

Devi’s shoulders tense up, and Ben can tell she’d rather do almost anything else. She is about to reply, her bottom lip in between her teeth, and Ben opens his mouth before he can truly consider it.

“Actually, babe,” he says, and sees her control slip at the unexpected use of the pet name when she turns to him quickly with wide eyes, “didn’t you just say you wanted to go to the bar and get a drink?” 

Devi opens and closes her mouth once, before realizing what he is doing, and nodding quickly. Her earrings bounce. “Y-Yeah,” she says, voice catching, and Ben feels a wholly unexpected swirl of pride course through his blood. _He_ did that. She turns back to Gregory. “Tell Deborah I’ll catch up to her later for me, please?” 

Gregory’s jaw is clenched, and Ben feels a strange sense of satisfaction. “Of course, Devi.” He walks away, pushing past Ben— he shoulder checks him, knocking him backwards, just a little bit, and he sways on his feet before he rights himself, but not before Devi definitely notices— and disappearing into a small crowd of immaculately dressed people. 

“Did Gregory just… _shove_ you?” she asks, an indescribable look in her eyes. Her face is nearly as red as her dress, and Ben can almost imagine a world where her eyes would turn red with anger, too. 

“Maybe?” he answers, and knows it’s the wrong choice when he sees Devi set her jaw. “It was probably an accident, though.” 

_“I’m_ the only person who’s allowed to push you around without apologizing.” 

“Oh, so you only care because he’s encroaching on your territory,” Ben jokes, but his light smile disappears when he sees Devi’s face. 

Ben knows her; he has grown up with her and danced with her and seen her cry, and, even once, seen raw open honest real complete true vulnerability in her eyes on the cliffs over a beach in Malibu, and that is why he knows, now, that he has hurt her. He wishes, beyond anything, that she would tell him what he’s done, but he knows her, and so he knows she never will. 

“I care about you, Ben,” she says, places a hand on his arm, nails scratching the material of his suit jacket, “don’t let people like Gregory— wait, fuck that— don’t let _anyone_ push you around.” 

Ben scoffs, and shakes his head, smiling. “He only did it because he’s jealous of me.” 

Devi’s eyebrows crinkle, and she tilts her head to the side, turning her face a few degrees away from his. It’s her _what did you just say?_ look, and Ben feels that she has mastered it. 

“What?” she asks.

“He likes you, David— like, a lot.” 

The corners of Devi’s mouth turn down into a grimace of epic proportions, and Ben is really grateful, right about now, that he is not Gregory.

“Oh, _gross.”_

“You sound thirteen years old when you say that, Devi.” 

“But Gregory is, like, legitimately the worst.” 

“I thought I was the worst,” he asks, feeling inexplicably threatened at the notion of being unsaddled in his position as Devi’s enemy.

“You are, but Gregory is a _different_ kind of the worst,” she explains, and pulls him towards the bar, her fingers looped around his wrist. “Like, y’know how there's a villain you sometimes have a soft spot for, and one you absolutely hate?” 

“Like… Draco Malfoy and Umbridge?” he suggests, and she gives him a strange look. 

“That’s actually… exactly the characters I was thinking of,” Devi says, a small smile looping onto her face, “how’d you do that?” 

“How’d I do what?” he asks, and her face drops. 

“Nevermind,” she says, then leans in to order a drink from the bartender— sex on the beach, because of _course_ she’d order a ridiculous cocktail— then turns back to face him, “well, Gregory is Umbridge, and you’re Draco.” 

“Why do you hate him _so_ much?” Ben asks, sticking his hands in his pockets, and ignoring the indication that him being Draco means Devi has a soft spot for him.

“He’s just, like… you if you had no morals.” 

“Aww, you think I have morals?” 

“Did you just _aww_ me?” she asks, glossing over his question. 

“Shut up, Devi, and drink your girly cocktail,” he tells her, good natured, but she rolls her eyes anyway.

“I’m _really_ resisting the urge to dump this over your head right now,” she tells him, taking a sip, then stirring it up, dropping the cherry into the tall glass.

“As if you could reach that high.” 

“Oh, really, _really_ resisting,” she says, bending the tip of the stir stick, “also, you're only, like, an inch and a half taller than me.”

“It’s just another area in which I’m far more proficient than you.” 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“Five minutes ago you called me a villain you have a soft spot for,” he points out, then regrets it.

“I did?” she asks, and pushes her eyebrows together, feigning ignorance. Ben _knows_ that she remembers, that she knows full well what he is referencing. 

“You definitely did.” 

“You just want me to have a soft spot for you,” she argues. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because you’re obsessed with me,” she says plainly, and takes another sip of her drink, red fingernails tapping against the glass. 

“Oh, you wish David.” 

She is opening her mouth— she’s wearing deep red lipstick, that matches her dress, and Ben finds it impossibly tempting— to reply when a tall woman with an electric pink dress on steals her attention away, and Ben is left alone. 

It isn’t all that bad, really— he waits around, sipping on a rum and coke and surveying the people chatting idly when a hand lands on his shoulder. 

He startles, turning around, straightening himself up as tall as he can before he realizes it is Gregory. He doesn’t relax— not all the way— but the hand not holding his glass unclenches from the fist he had formed it into subconsciously. 

“Hey, Gregory,” he says, and realizes that Gregory is scowling. 

“Ben.” He nods just head backwards, gesturing to the empty hallway in the banquet hall. “Can we talk?” 

Ben’s blood runs cold, and he tips the rest of his drink back, swallowing it quickly and blinking, hard. “Yeah, sure, let me just find Devi and tell her where I’m going.” 

Gregory nods, and Ben turns around, dropping his glass back on the bar and tapping Devi’s elbow. She whirls around, the corners of her mouth turning up into a smile when she sees him. 

“Hey, David, so I think Gregory might be taking me outside to kill me,” he whispers, and her brow furrows. 

“I don’t think he has the required blood lust.” 

“You don’t need bloodlust to— never mind,” he waves his hand in a _forget about it_ gesture, and she raises her eyebrows. “If I don’t come back, in, like, a half an hour, assume I’ll need an ambulance.” 

“How about I just come and find you instead?” she offers, “I mean, I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to see you get your ass kicked.” 

“Thanks, David, you really make me feel secure in our relationship.” 

“Oh, shut up, and go get your ass beat like a man.” She pushes his shoulder, softer than usual, and something brady and reckless overtakes him, because he leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek, head spinning when she gasps. 

“Try not to miss me too much,” he says, straightening up to his full height again, and smirking, “be back soon.” 

* * *

He has been gone for forty-four minutes.

Devi tries to be cool about it; there are plenty of lo for him not to be back yet, like… needing to use the restroom, or getting lost, or—

— or getting knocked out cold in the hallway. 

She has no idea how well he’d hold up in a fist fight— he’d probably break his thumb from making a fist wrong, the moron— and, truthfully, the thought of him getting hurt makes her feel sick to her stomach.

She sets her drink down and makes an excuse to the girl she is talking to (Devi isn’t really sure of what her name is, and she feels a little guilty about it) and makes her way out of the banquet hall and into the hallway.

There is a noticeable change in temperature between the banquet hall and the hallway, and it raises goosebumps on her arms. 

Finding Ben and Gregory is not that hard: they’re standing a few feet away from the door, and Gregory is pointing his finger at Ben's chest, his voice raised, and Devi panics. Gregory isn't exactly intimidating— all he has going for him is that he’s tall— but Devi can still feel her blood run cold when Gregory gets so close to Ben that he has to take a step back. 

Ben turns, sparing a glance towards the door she came out of, and he does a double take when he sees her, and Devi feels her temperature skyrocket. 

He looks… afraid isn’t the right word, but Devi does not think any word would be right to describe the look on his face. His eyes are blown wide and the corners of his mouth turned down. It is something like false ambivalence, exactly the face Ben makes when he wants to hide how upset he is about something. 

She is walking towards them before she even really realizes what she is doing, and she slots herself in between Ben and Gregory. 

It’s truly ridiculous; Gregory is at least six feet tall, and she has to tip her head back to look at him, and when she does, his face is a mask of anger. But, it feels right, calms the angry, relentless protective— _protective,_ that is what it is, that is what she feels towards Ben, protective— instinct swirling through her veins. 

“Devi? What the hell?” Gregory asks, dropping his hand and stepping back. 

“Don’t yell at him,” she says, her voice impossibly smooth, and she realizes all at once that she is standing completely straight. 

“I wasn’t—” 

“I _saw_ you!” she shouts, and feels Ben drop a hand on the small of her back, and, somehow, it makes her stand taller. “What? You think you can treat someone like that and get away with it because you’re spoiled?” 

Gregory’s face morphs from unpleasant surprise to a scowl, newly acquired hatred. “That’s, rude, Devi.” 

She is about to argue, to tear into him, stinging insults and cutting remarks, before Ben ducks his head and she hears his voice in her ear, saying, “he’s not worth it, let’s get out of here.” He pulls back, and she turns to look at him, and it is like there is an entire world in his eyes. 

“Yeah, okay,” she agrees, and nods her head, but can’t stop herself from turning and saying, “fuck you, Gregory,” before Ben leads her back to the coat check. 

* * *

“That was… insane,” Devi says, walking through the parking lot with him, the asphalt digging into her feet— her shoes are new, and, currently, dangling from Ben's hand. They had cut into her heels, and the night cooled ground against the soles of her feet feels better than the constant shock of each step in the shoes. 

“Yelling at the president of your art history club at his own event?” Ben summarizes, pulling his keys from his pocket and pressing a button to unlock his car. “Yeah, I’d have to agree.” 

“Did you see his face? The biggest highlight of my life, by far,” she says, getting in and buckling her seat belt, tapping her fingers against her knee, over the fabric of her dress. “God, I am _definitely_ getting kicked out of this club.” 

“Is that really a loss, though?” Ben asks. He is leaning back, arm propped against her headrest, and she pulls in a breath, heavily. 

Ben is attractive. It’s undeniable. He is more soft, muted, rounded at the edges than Paxton, but there is something about him that Paxton lacks. Something that ignites her body and makes her skin feel doused in cold flames, the deceptive burning of dry ice. 

It stirs and churns in her, catching her viens on fire, and she stalls when Ben parks in front of her building, looking up at him through her lashes. 

“Thanks, Ben,” she says, a half smile like a crescent moon rising on her face, “I really appreciate it. And I owe you one.” 

“I know you do, Devi,” he tells her. Smiles. Winks, out of character, but she likes it. “Oh, by the way, you… looked really good tonight.” 

Something shifts. The world falls out of its twenty three point five degree tilt, and Devi leans forward and kisses him. He gasps, then groans, then threads a hand into her hair, his hands pushing her neediness up to the surface and she pulls away from him long enough to whisper, “come up to my place with me.” 

* * *

He pushes her up against the door as he says, “just a one time thing, right?” and she nods before she can process it, really, and all reason flees when he presses his lips against the juncture of her neck and shoulders, his teeth scraping against her skin, and she moans before she can stop herself. 

“My bedroom is down the h-hall, first door on the left,” she says, voice skipping like a scratched record when he pulls down the zipper on her dress, his fingers tracing the skin of her spine. 

“I’ll remember that for later,” he says, lips brushing against the center of her chest, goosebumps rising, and she pushes her eyebrows together. 

“Later?” she asks him, manages to look up at his face, and locks eyes with him as he slips his hand into her underwear and slides two fingers into her, thumb pressing against her clit. “B-Ben,” she keens, pushing her hips against his hand, “what-what are you doing?” 

Instead of answering, he leans down, lips connecting with her jaw, and says, “tell me how to make you feel good.” 

“Oh, _God,”_ she whispers, and he circles his thumb over her, making her whimper and thrust into him. 

“Come on, Devi, talk to me.” 

“Fuck, o-okay,” she breathes, and tries to gather her bearings, digging her fingernails into Bens arm. She hears him hiss, and it spurns her on. “Okay, m-move faster, and— fuck, _Ben—_ keep going, c-come on.” 

He moves his hand, twisting his wrist, and his fingers brush against the spot inside of her that makes colours swirl in an endless rainbow. “R-right there, Ben, God.” 

“You’re so beautiful,” he tells her, and she groans, legs shaking, his lips against her neck, “tell me how you feel, Devi, come on.” 

“Fuck, okay,” she’s close, unbelievably so, and she groans, legs tense, “I feel good, you make me feel so good— I’m so close, come on, Ben.”

“Fuck, say my name like that again.” He presses his thumb against her clit, and she comes undone, legs shaking and nails scoring down his back. 

_“Ben,”_ she moans, and hears him gasp, grinding her hips into his hand as he works her through her climax, before she exhales, letting her hands drop from his back. 

“You liked that, huh?” he asks, even though he _knows_ the answer, and Devi groans, but it turns into a gasp when he pulls his fingers from her gently. 

“Shut the fuck up, Gross,” she says, still leaning against the door, trying to gather herself before she can haul him off to her bedroom. 

“Just answer the question, Devi,” he says, smoothing both hands down either side of her body, and she arched into him, unbidden. She wants to hate it, his self assurance confidence, the ease with which he touches her, talks to her, but she can’t. Not when it sends heat through her body, every inch of her skin on fire. 

“Fine, yes, Ben,” she says, and knows by the quirks of his eyebrow that he wants more, “yes, I liked it, okay?” 

He nods, then drops his hands from her hips to her thighs, and lifts her up easily. She shouts, and locks her legs around his waist, dropping her hands to his shoulders, holding onto him _tight._ “What the fuck are you doing?” she asks, and realizes he’s moving when she feels cold air rushing against her back. 

“Taking you to your bedroom.”

“I could’ve walked, y’know?” 

“Yeah, but I could fucking carry you,” he snaps, and she gasps, the tone of his voice making heat and desire collect in the pit of her stomach. 

He pushes her bedroom door open and drops her on top of her bed, leaving a line of kisses from her neck to the palm of her hand, and whispers, “do you have any condoms?” into the skin against her fingers. 

“Third drawer on my desk,” she answers, sighing, and opens her eyes when she feels his fingers tap against the underside of her chin. “What?” 

“We can't do this again.” 

She presses her lips together, ignoring her disappointment. “I know.” 

* * *

It takes two weeks for her to end up at his place at midnight, then four days for him to show up at hers. It becomes habit, showing up at late hours and lying to friends, professors, each other. Devi tries not to let it eat her up, let it swallow her whole, but it collapses— exactly like it always does— three months after it begins. 

Devi is a pragmatist, a realist, and she does not give herself an inch of whimsy when it comes to Ben. 

She is lingering, staying longer than she should, wrapped up in white sheets and the scent of sandalwood when he says, “we should have stopped this a long time ago.” She turns to him, tries not to look hurt. “Shouldn’t we?” 

“Why?” 

He is quiet, face unnervingly even, and Devi wants to be sick. “Because,” he says, “this isn’t right for us.” 

Devi has always been able to argue. She pushes buttons and switches gears, unleashes anger and unlocks hurt, especially with Ben, even when he doesn’t deserve it, but she can not access it now. 

She wants to scream at the ocean, but not the one in his eyes. 

“Okay,” she manages, and pulls her dress over her head, ignoring the sandalwood filling up her senses. Thinks about everything that had happened after Malibu, how he didn’t look at her the same for a year, how he didn’t even bother to fight her in class anymore, and thinks about how she will have to relive that now. “Do me a favour and don’t call me,” she says, and walks out, before she can regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading and bearing with my long ass radio silence. If you enjoyed, like a kudos, and if you really enjoyed, leave a comment, because they make my cat respect me. Thank you and I love you forever.


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